


Poison Kiss

by AutumnDreams



Category: Spooks | MI-5
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 21:25:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 5,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8073235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AutumnDreams/pseuds/AutumnDreams
Summary: A small collection of scenes inspired by the cd 'Poison Kiss' by The Last Goodnight and set in a mix of an alternate universe and canon. 12 chapters in total.





	1. Poison Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> My original plan had been to write a lovely one shot for Ruth's birthday, but as usual, the universe had other plans and I didn't get a chance to put it together today. While I still plan on working on that, I thought I'd share with you this collection of scenes. Inspired by the studio album 'Poison Kiss' by The Last Goodnight, each chapter is a short scene inspired by a track on the album, and even more challenging, I could only write during the length of the song. A task my favorite English Literature teacher once gave my class many years ago.

_Time to write: 3:47_

He cradles her weight as gently as he can manage, his left arm pressed tight against her back as he tries to keep her from the damp ground. Tears run down his face, dropping to mingle with the salty wetness rolling down her own.

"Just keep talking Ruth," he says, his voice deep with roughness as he presses his free hand as hard as he can against her wound.

"It's so cold," she manages to whisper, a shiver evident in her voice.

"Tell me again," he implores, "about the house." His eyes move away from hers briefly, wildly looking about, hoping against hope that help is near.

His eyes drop back to hers, fear gripping him at not hearing her response. His breath catches at the vacant look within the blue orbs. "Ruth," he almost yells, no one else about mattering, as his grip tightens. Leaning down, his lips are only a hairs breadth from hers when, as he pauses just a second, his heart constricts.

Her name is but a whisper as he cries it, his blood covered right hand absently sliding to cradle her face. His dry lips press against her chilled ones in one last kiss goodbye.


	2. Back Where We Belong

_Time to Write: 3:50_

He stands in the hall, watching her back as she retreats the short distance to her room. Around them, music pumps through the air, the bass shaking the floor. A headache is forming at the base of his skull as her door snaps shut.

Yet again, she's turning her back and running, hiding behind the door. Both metaphorically and literally.

It has to stop. He knows she feels deeply for him, perhaps as much as he feels for her, and yet, she's scared of what others will say. But if he's learned one thing in all his years, it's that time doesn't wait for fear to pass.

Mind made up, he strides down the hall, for once not caring who is watching - or listening - to what he has to say. Hand raising, he knocks on the wood.

Only seconds pass before the door opens, the brunette before him brushing tears from her eyes.

"Harry," she says, fingers gripping the wood as she stares up at him.

He doesn't answer, instead stepping forward. His arm wraps around her waist, pulling her flush against him, and as she squeaks, he presses his lips against hers.


	3. Pictures of You

_Time to Write: 3:10_

_Be Brave_. The words echo through her mind as she steps free of the taxi. Those last words Lucas had spoken to her before the anesthetic had taken it's grip playing over and over as she had laid in the hospital room. Thinking about the meaning behind those loaded words.

It was just two of them, and yet, they held the power to change not only her life but also of the man who holds her heart.

 _He loves you,_ she thinks to herself as she softly shuts the door. Turning, she looks at the darkened house, wishing that she had checked to make sure he was home before leaving the hospital. But her mind had been elsewhere, wondering where the man in question was, worried that in the end, Lucas had done what he set out to do and ended Harry.

Word from Beth had assured her that he was, in fact, safe, and yet he hadn't come to the hospital.

And so, upon being discharged, she had found herself making her way to his house. Swallowing, she grabs at the resolve she had felt only minutes before, and strides to his front stoop. As she rings the bell, she waits, her eyes drawn to the quietness of the neighborhood. Behind the wood and the glass she hears a dog bark as a light comes on, and soon, she hears locks being undone. As the man appears, she squashes the nerves that flare up.

He's wearing his suit trousers still, his white shirt hanging over them, and her eyes are drawn to the cut butterflied on his forehead. Before he can speak, she steps forward, her fingers brushing gently the skin around the cut.

And suddenly it's so clear. Fingers tracing down his cheek, she says softly, "I love you."


	4. Stay Beautiful

_Time to write: 3:14_

She's not expecting company and so when the bell first rings that Sunday morning, she's confused. Curled in pajamas and her duvet, she's enjoying the luxury of a morning lie in – the first one she's had in months – Fidget curled against her leg as she reads a book long on her reading list. "I wonder who that is," she says to the cat, marking her place in the book. Setting it on the nightstand, she climbs from the wonderful warmth to pull on an old dressing gown.

Feet bare, she pads down the stairs, the worn carpet tickling the soles of her feet. As she reaches the second floor landing, the bell rings a second time and she hurries, now racking her mind for an appointment that she's missed. Unable to think of anything, she detours into the sitting room, slipping to the window. Carefully; but quickly; she pulls back the curtain to glance at who is standing on her stoop.

And lets it drop just as fast.

 _What the hell,_ she thinks, back turning to the window as she steps to the middle of the room. She's wondering what to do when the bell rings for a third time and she knows she can't keep ignoring it. Hands raising, she tries to tame the wild nest she knows her hair is as she steps into the entry way. Pausing behind the frosted glass of her door, she quickly swipes at her face, hoping against hope she's not got dried drool clinging around her lips, and as she pulls her dressing gown closed, she unlocks the door.

There on the stoop, dressed in casual trousers and a teal sweater, Harry stands. It's a warm spring morning and so he's forgone a jacket, and with his back currently towards her, she can only stare at the way the thin wool pulls against his broad shoulders.

"Goo…good morning Harry," she stutters, and she knows that her cheeks are just flaming red – the same red that's spreading down her neck and the rest of her body. Wishing the floor would open up to swallow her, she tries to act casual.

"Good morning Ruth, " he says, his voice a low husk as he turns to offer what can only be described as a tender smile. "I'm sorry to intrude on your day off, but I realized before you left yesterday, I forgot to ask a favor of you."

"Of course," she answers, fingers gripping the door as she steps back. "Would you like to come in?"

"No, no," he says, his smile growing as he holds out a folder. "I don't want to intrude. And this will really only take a moment."

Taking the folder she mentally chides herself, wondering why she would think he would want to come in. The man was probably on his way somewhere, not going out of his way to see her. Opening the folder, she looks at the documents inside. Finding them in Greek, she knows what it is that he needs, and as she closes the thick cardstock, she meets his eyes, offering him a small smile. "I'll have it translated for you by tomorrow morning."

"Thank you Ruth," he says, his smile positively glowing now as he briefly touches the back of her hand. "I'm sorry to spring this on you last minute, but I completely forgot about it yesterday."

"It's no problem Harry." Holding the folder to her chest, she shifts away from the door. "Have a good day."

"You as well." He offers her that glowing smile one last time before turning on the stoop.

As he steps down, Ruth closes the door, snapping the locks shut before turning towards the kitchen. _No reason to put it off_ , she thinks to herself, intent on making some tea and toast before translating the various documents. She's just reached the kitchen door when the bell rings again.

Frowning, she holds the folder to her chest and hurries to the door, unlocking it as she wonders what it is he's forgotten. Because she knows it's him.

"Have dinner with me," he says, not waiting for the door to open all the way. "Tonight."

She's thrown at not only his return, but his question, and so she gapes like a fish for a moment, before saying the first thing that comes to mind, her hands moving of their own accord to highlight her cotton pajamas, wild hair, and what she's sure is dried drool on the corner of her mouth. "You want to have dinner with me knowing this happens?"

"Beautiful," is his simple answer, his eyes never leaving hers. "And you've yet to meet 4.30 AM woken by a red flash Harry."


	5. This is the Sound

_Time to Write: 3:18_

He sits in his office.

Alone.

The hour is late, the lights of the Grid faint.

In his hand, a tumbler of Whiskey rests. Perhaps he should have headed home, but then, he muses, perhaps his home has become where he works, and the place where he rests his head nothing more than wood and bricks.

His life is what he has made it.

Choices made, wrong paths followed.

Some days, when they stop death and destruction, the decisions of years past seem right.

But many - most if he's being truthful - feel like he's followed the wrong map.

She had walked out, a gentle touch of her hand to his, her eyes full of the regret at ending what could have been magical, but circled by the fear of what others would think and say.

Instead of running after her, putting his heart on the line, he had listened to the sound of his beating heart breaking.

Day after day he sees her, is hurt by the way she ignores him. _Love me or hate me_ , he wants to tell her, _but don't ignore me._

Love and hate, they both mean there's emotion there. But ignoring; _**ignoring**_ ; means there's indifference. That perhaps the said feelings had all been nothing but a lie from her lips.

And yet, he also knows somewhere deep inside, that ignoring seems to be what eighty percent of the women in his life had done when he hurt them the most.

He lifts the glass to his lips, takes of a sip of the warm liquid, and listens to his broken heart beating.


	6. One Trust

_Time to Write: 3:55_

She stands on the bluff, oblivious to the chilly sea breeze whipping at her long navy coat and brunette hair. The emotions on her face mimic the sky, a range of stormy anger and wicked, heart-deep pain.

Six weeks.

It's been six weeks since she ' _died'_ , and while so much has changed, so much has stayed the same. She's on the run.

Again.

But this time, there is nothing left in England for her to return to. Her mother is dead, having had a stroke almost a year after her return. Fidget, her old friend, is also gone, having disappeared from her flat just weeks she'd gotten him back. And now, she's on the run.

Alone.

Well, not completely alone. Some faces from the past; ones she thought dead; are watching over her as she heals from the deep stab wound to the stomach inflicted by Harry's new step-son, in his anger at his father's death. She can feel the pity and the remorse they feel for her, watching as she mourns the man who has not only ruined her life once again, but broken her heart as well.

Trust.

It's something she thought they had between them, even with all the lies their chosen career had created in their lives, she thought the trust between them meant something. Had banked on it. Waking in that hospital room, three days after she'd been stabbed, to find not Harry but Malcolm, one of their dearest friends, sitting by her bed reading.

He'd tended to her those first few days, not mentioning the man she wanted to know about, instead focusing on her getting stronger. It had been Zaf; the man she'd thought dead for so long; who had greeted her with a smile upon arriving at the house in Scotland who had told her Harry was married.

To Eleana.

The news had broken something inside of her. Deep fears, ones she has squashed down in her trust of him, had proven to be true. And now, she's not sure what she'll do. Returning to Cypress had briefly crossed her mind, but the knowledge that a good man who had loved her had died because of what she was squashed any of those thoughts. Nico was better off without her about.

South America has some appeal to her. Not only is it far from England and Harry, but perhaps with Zaf and Colin's help, she can find Zoe. Just check in with the woman who had been one of her earliest friends in the department.

She lifts her face to the sky, feels the wind press the air from her, and as her eyes close, she hears her name. It's distant, floating around her.

Struggling to open her eyes, she blinks at the blurred face in her vision. There's a warmth surrounding her, a tender touch on her cheek as she hears her name again.

"Ruth! Open your eyes."

"Harry," she manages to whisper, her hands moving to grip the hands holding her cheeks.

"Thank God," he says, moving to cradle her gently in his arms. "Help is almost here."

She struggles for breath, hissing as he pushes against her wound again, stemming the flow of blood. Her face is pressed into the white shirt covering his chest, and through the thin material, she can feel the heat of his body. Cold, she weakly presses into him, leaching onto the warmth he is offering, her gaze lifting to meet his.

"Don't leave me," she mutters, eyes pleading with his as the horrible future she foresaw filling her mind again.

He sees something in her eyes, something that has him fumbling to change his hold on her, to lift her further into his arms while maintaining the pressure on her side. "I'm not going anywhere," he mutters, lips lowering to hers. "Not without you."


	7. Return to Me

He steps behind her on the deck of the boat, the serene countryside of Germany passing slowly before them. Overhead, the evening sun has just set, casting the sky in shades of purples and pinks. "I thought I'd find you here," he says softly, his arms wrapping around her waist.

"I never realized just how beautiful the country of Germany really is," she says, leaning back against his chest. "I've been here before, spent some months hopping from town to town when I was trying to find a place to settle, but not once did I appreciate the absolute beauty of everything."

He doesn't say anything, just continues to hold her, as he remembers the bitterness and the pain he had felt during those three long years when she had been on the run. It's times that he does not necessarily like to remember, never knowing if she was alright, if she had settled, had she found someone to love. He tries not to think about the fact that she did find someone, that she had started to build a life with another man, because in the end, she had come back to him.

"Stop thinking," she mutters, knowing exactly what it is that he is thinking about. Any time she mentions those years that she was on the run, when they had no contact or communication between them, he begins thinking about George, about the life that she was living without him. "I chose you Harry; not George and Nico."

"It still flabbergasts me," he says, his face turning until his mouth is next to her ear, "that you chose London and me over the beauty and tranquility of Cypress and George. I always expected you to go back with him when the danger was gone."

She twists in his hold, her arms lifting to wrap around his neck. Softly, she kisses him, knowing he needs the reassurances at times that she wants to be here, with him, and not with the man she had lived with during her time away. "There was never any choice to make Harry," she kisses him again, her fingers playing with the fine hair at the nape of his neck, "I would always return to you."


	8. Good Love

"Might I have this first dance, Lady Pearce?" His hand held out, Harry asks the question of the woman who had only two hours before become his wife.

She smiles and excuses herself from the three women she is talking with and turns to find Harry standing behind her, a serious look on his face as he extends her his hand. Placing her hand in his, she feels his fingers close tightly around hers, leading her to the center of the room. As he draws her to him, she feels the eyes of everyone on them, and heat creeps up her face.

"Focus on me," he mutters, his hold tightening as she lifts her eyes to his, knowing just how much she hates being the center of attention.

"That's not hard to do," Ruth says, smiling again as she tries to pretend no one else is about. It doesn't work and she presses closer to her husband. "I'm sorry," she mutters, "I never imagined mother would invite quite this many people."

"Ruth, I don't care if she invited all of Exeter and the surrounding areas, if you're happy, than so am I." Leaning down, he presses his mouth against hers in a short, tender kiss. "Though I would prefer if it's just you and I tonight."


	9. If I Talk to God

"I saw the cottage earlier today." He steps into the private room, shutting the heavy wooden door behind him as he speaks, and with it, the noise of the hospital. "And I can see us living there."

He takes his coat off, hanging it carefully on the hook on the back of the door. Dressed in casual Khaki's and the blue shirt she had admired so many years before on their first, and only, date, he steps to an ingrained place besides the bed and smiles. "I'm sorry," he mutters, his hand rising to caress her cheek gently, "I got so excited about the cottage that I forgot to say hello."

Leaning down, he presses the softest of kisses against the comatose woman's lips. As he rises, his gaze is drawn to the monitor beside the bed.

No response.

With a sigh, he sits in what has become his chair and reaches for her hand. Regret and fear fills him as he slides his fingers between hers. Two weeks almost to the hour have passed since Ruth was stabbed, and when he closes his eyes at night, he can still feel the warmth of her blood spilling out onto his hands, and the ghostly white she had turned.

And he knows with each passing hour that she remains in her coma, the more likely it is that she will not awake.

 _"No_ ," he thinks to himself, _"she's going to come back to me._ "

He clears his throat, pushing down the wave of emotions threatening to overwhelm him, instead focusing on the cottage he had visited for the first time only that morning.

"I hope you won't find it presumptuous of me," he starts, his thumb slowly tracing the lines of her palm, "but I put an offer on the cottage. I know you had; I spoke with your realtor a few times; but legally I have no rights to speak on your behalf. The best solution the realtor and my solicitor could come up with is for me to purchase the property, and when you wake, to 'sell' it to you, or if you agree, to putting it in both our names."

He pauses a moment, hoping for a reaction, a response, but there is nothing. It breaks his heart a little each day, seeing her like this and not knowing.

"I was thinking about the smaller of the two bedrooms. The one you saw as my office. At first, it might be better if I sleep in there. Not that I don't want to share a bedroom with you," he rushes on, "but while I will be presumptuous about many things, I'll never presume to force you into anything you may not be comfortable with. It's not something we ever talked about before that day." He's nervous now, worried about saying the wrong thing, something he's only ever been with Ruth, as he continues. "But later, I don't want; no I don't _need;_ an office. This is it – I'm retiring from the service when you're better – and an office is not something that I'll need. Any correspondence can be done in the sitting room. Or wherever you think to put a desk. Because I know you will."

He smiles at this, shifting in his chair to toe off his shoes. They come to rest under the bed as he gets more comfortable, and for a moment, he's quiet, wondering exactly how to bring up what it is that he's been thinking about these past few weeks.

"I stopped by your flat," he starts, "that first day after your surgery, to round up the cats and bring them back to mine," he says, the change in conversation a bit random to anyone but them. "Fidget was fine, he remembered me from before, and after some slight hesitation, came to me for some love. However, Aristotle was a different story – he doesn't know me and refused to come out from under your bed. Even for a can of tuna. I've…" he stops, looking down at their joined hands, before continuing. "I've taken them home with me. Settled them in with Scarlett so that they're not alone."

It also helps him, having her cats near when he tries to sleep at night. A tangible piece of her. "Anyway, while I was…wrestling…with him, I knocked into your nightstand. And your journal fell off. It was wrong, I know," he says, his fingers tightening subconsciously around hers in a fear that he'll anger her and she'll go away, "and I do promise to always respect your privacy, but I couldn't help glancing at the page that landed open."

He shifts again, leaning forward so his elbows rest on the bed, her hand still gripped tightly in his.

"Why did you never say how much you missed Nico Ruth? We could have done something for you to retain custody of him after George was murdered. He didn't _have_ to return to Cypress. You could have stayed his mother." For a moment, he stops, an image of their child floating through his mind, but he knows that it will never happen, not biologically at least. The doctors had all but said that to him after her surgery.

But…"it's too late for us to have a child, at least one that's part you and I, but that does not mean we can't adopt. After seeing your journal, it got me thinking. About my own children, how I wish I had a second chance at being a better father, about Wes and Nico, how neither have any parents now, how there are other children like them out there. Not a baby, I'm not sure either one of us want to deal with that at our age, but a child. Maybe around five? Or old…"

He stops and stares, expectation filling his features as he hopes he wasn't just imaging the tightening of fingers around his. Standing, he moves closer to the bed, his grip on her hand never lessening. "Ruth?" he asks, leaning closer to her face, "can you hear me?"

Perhaps the most beautiful sight greets him as her eyes flutter open, the blue filled with confusion as she mouths his name.


	10. Push Me Away

The café is crowded as Ruth makes her way to the back. It is a Saturday afternoon. Warm, sunny, and fresh with the budding of early spring flowers and trees, the world has a freshness to it that had been missing only the week before. There is a feeling of hope to the air, of newness and fresh starts.

It brings a smile to her face.

As she weaves through the tables, her eyes scan the room from habit, and for a moment, she thinks she sees the profile of a familiar face at the counter. She shakes her head as she continues to the empty table the hostess has waiting for her at the back – it's not Harry. There's no way that _Sir_ Harry Pearce would demean himself into eating lunch in a popular bohemian neighborhood café, let alone be caught dead in her neighborhood.

Finding the table, she slips into one of the two empty seats, her eyes drawn again to the room as she waits for her date. Nerves flutter in her stomach, the same ones that woke her with the first rays of dawn. She tries not to think of the man she is to meet, a James Pearington, head of a security company based in Central London, her first foray into online dating.

And probably only, if she's honest with herself.

Had she not been slightly drunk and extremely upset at Harry's indifference to her taking the job with the Home Office, she doubts Beth would have been able to talk her into it. Instead, she'd laughingly filled out the page after page of questions, wondering who exactly came up with the questions, and promptly forgot about it the next day.

That had been six months ago.

Two months later, James had reached out to her, his first message to her full of shyness and disbelief that he was succumbing to online dating. She'd been unsure at first, in not only what to say but even if she should answer. Yet there had been something about his message to her, the subtle sweetness to it that had drawn her in. A quick but thorough and highly illegal dig through some databases had verified the identity of the man, and so with some anxiety, she had begun conversing with him.

And here they were, four months later, meeting for the first time. In a café where she was well known and felt relatively safe, should anything wicked her way come. She's so engrossed in her thoughts that she does not see the man in the light trousers and gray jumper approach, nor does she see him sit at the table before her.

"Ruth."

She looks up, startled at the silkiness of her name coming from Harry's lips. It's warm and full of affection, tenderness and love; something she has never fully heard coming from him. Never mind it's not him she's expecting but James Pea…

"You cad," she hisses, a convoluted picture forming in her mind, one that had she not been so distracted by other things in her life, she would have pieced together sooner. The name, the job, the way he seemed so perfectly fit to her was because he was. Henry _James_ Pearce  was James Pearington. A fictional man created for what purpose, she's unsure, but a fictional man for sure.

"Ruth," he says, a mix of pain and discomfort filling his face, "it's not what you think."

"What I think? Tell me Harry, what is it I think? That for the last four months you've been playing some sick, twisted game of getting to know poor lonely Ruth online, all the while having a laugh at my expense?"

She's about the push up from the table and storm out when he reaches across the table and grips her hand. Tightly. There's something about his eyes, the storm of emotions that is playing through them that has her staying in her seat, not ripping her hand from his.

"You kept pushing me away Ruth. We were finally getting over the disaster that was George's death and my ill-timed proposal when everything happened, and yet again, we found ourselves on opposite sides. When you left, I was overcome with grief, and then, if by magic, I saw on your Internet usage that you had signed up for a dating site. And your comment about not truly knowing each other came into my mind." He stops for a moment, his grip turning to a caress as he continues. "All I wanted was a chance to show you that we do know each other, and more importantly, that what we want and like are one and the same."

"You lied to me," she says softly, the anger she had been feeling only minutes before ebbing away, replaced with a feeling she can't yet begin to describe.

"Not really. I said my name was James – and it is. Technically. I said I was head of a security company, which I am. I _am_ a divorced father of two with a long line of failed relationships, just as I think I _have_ found the one I want to spend the rest of whatever years I have left on this planet with. Everything else – the likes, the dislikes, hopes and dreams. That's all true. It's just the window dressings that are different."

As he's talking, he turns their hands until their fingers slide together, his palm pressing against hers. With a warm smile, he shakes her hand. "Hello. I'm Harry, and you are?"


	11. In Your Arms

He stands to the side of the room, unobtrusive as her attendants carefully lift the gauzy veil over her brunette hair. One pulls out a set of thin, silver pins and carefully anchors the piece in place. She turns her head sideways and smiles at him, her blue eyes alight with the happiness she is feeling for the day, and inside, a tiny piece of his heart breaks.

It's her wedding day; one of the happiest she'll have in her life he hopes, and yet a part of him is sad.

Sad for all the lost years, of missed moments, and misconceptions that have been between them for so much of their relationship. He feels the door beside him open, the sudden dip in temperature filtering in from the crowded vestibule. Before he can turn his head, a hand gently touches his side, sliding under his tux jacket to rest against the thin white cotton of his shirt. From that simple touch, he knows it's his wife, and now he does turn his head, a forced smile on his face.

"She's only getting married Harry, not moving to Istanbul."

"It feels like it," he says softly, knowing he can't hide anything from Ruth. "I feel like I'm losing her all over again, only this time, it's much worse."

"You're not losing her," she says just as softly, stepping forward to carefully wrap the bereft man in a tender hug, her lips pressing against his gently.

"When Jane died, and Graham angrily reached out, I realized I was given a second chance with my children, to while not make amends for my past mistakes, we could form a new relationship. And we did. Eventually. It took a lot of hard work, some swearing on both sides, and for almost a year, my son ignoring my very presence when we were in the same room, but we managed. I never thought one of them would be taken from me again."

"She's not being taken Harry. She'll still live in London. You'll still see her just as frequently as you did, talk to her just as much."

Sighing, he turns to pull his wife in his arms, admitting somewhere inside that she's right. Before he can say as much, Catherine is before them, her smile wide as she holds out a hand, asking if he's ready.


End file.
